Gluttony and Poverty

Two things scare me about going to rural Nepal to volunteer

The first is trivial and I feel guilty for even thinking about it: My diet.
I’m not a fussy easy. I will eat almost anything put in front of me (whether I’m hungry or not.) But I cannot help but worry about the amount of food that I will be given and if it will be enough to keep me healthy. Don’t get me wrong. I am volunteering with a wonderful company that have guaranteed to keep us well fed and safe. Yet I have this internal anxiety to stockpile food throughout my luggage. Maybe it’s hearing about the hundreds of people that were recently stranded in the region due to bad weather or maybe it’s worrying that my iron levels are already low due to my new vegetarian diet.
Side note: The butchers in Asia will turn anyone vegetarian. There is something shocking about seeing half a buffalo being cut up on a wooden board in the street with flies covering the carcass. It doesn’t make you want to order a steak.
I remember trying to do the 40hr famine when I was in primary school (a fundraising event where you cannot eat and can only drink water for 40hrs.) I couldn’t do it! I would always sneak food or justify soup as a liquid. Even as an adult I have very little power over my eating habits. A great example of this would be the mega-death-meal.  Aptly named as we were convinced it would take at least a day off our life expectancy. My flatmates and I would gorge ourselves on our KFC meal of a zinger burger, large fries, large soft drink, potato and gravy, 2 pieces original recipe and a full-sized zinger wrap to finish it off. The other favourite would be the 2ft subway challenge. Gluttony at its finest.
I can only hope that living on good, healthy food for a month will aid my eating habits for years to come.

The second is the major one. Guilt caused by ‘the gap between us.’

Why should they live in poverty when I don’t? I have spoken about this before and right now and it is a concept that I cannot get my head around. I know life is not fair but there is a difference between ‘not fair’ and mind boggling UNFAIR. I am not narcissistic enough to say that I deserve the privileged life that I have and these other people do not. Why am I able to eat 2ft of meatball sub in one sitting when others go hungry?

Right now across the world people are protesting against the 1%. The 1% of the population that controls a ridiculous amount of the world’s wealth. I wholeheartedly agree with these protests and have signed the London petition, but within the 99% there is a huge percentage of the world that lives below the poverty line. As part of the 99% I feel that it is my duty to give and help those with a lower quality of life and I hope that the 1% feel the same way.
I’d like to define the cliché ‘living below the poverty line’ and what that means on a day to day basis in Nepal. Living below the poverty line literally means living hand to mouth. The definition of the poverty line is earning enough to buy 2200 calories of food a day plus some basic non-food items; it sits at around $1 a day. Living below this line simply means that some days you go hungry, some you don’t. If the crops don’t grow or you don’t sell anything, you go hungry. If there is another expense, you go hungry. As soon as your children are old enough they work to support the family. If you are sick, you either still go to work, or you go hungry. There are no doctors visits, there are no savings.
They are the 25% of Nepal... and they make me look like the 1%. 

So I’m off into the Himalayas, a big thank you again to all those that helped me get here and wish me luck!!

A lunch in Paris

I wandered into the back streets of Paris to find a true French restaurant. Not a touristy version. By the time I found one (that wasn't full of Americans) I was starving.
‘Bonjour, parley voou Inglash?’ My French had marginally improved since I had arrived, but my Australian accent made it sound woeful even to my ears. The matron smiled and replied ‘Oui, would you like to see a menu?’ I smiled, finally a friendly Parisian. ‘Oui!’ I said a little too excited. Unfortunately the menu was in French. I could read enough to guess what I was ordering, but not everything. The hostess saw my struggling and was happy to translate. I ordered a cappuccino, roast duck and a salad. Like I said, I was starving! I took a seat at the front of the restaurant. Most cafes and restaurants in Paris have rows of wicker seats facing the street where people can sit, eat, gossip and watch the world go by. I sat and watched the rain fall down from the candy stripped awning and on to the street. I couldn’t help think that it was all so romantic.
I removed my map from my bag and started thinking about my return to my hostel. I had three hours until my airport pick up was due. I had seen a large amount of Paris in the last 2 days and I wasn't sure what I wanted to see next.

A man behind me asked if I needed help with directions and introduced himself as Pierre. Strange how he didn't even try to speak French to me...

He was in his late thirties with olive skin and think black hair. Although he was a Parisian, he had worked in New York and had a delightful French American accent when he spoke English. He told me about living in Paris and we discussed the celebrations happening around the city for Bastille's day.
My lunch arrived and the conversation halted while I ate. Perhaps a little rude, but French food deserves your full attention. Delicious is an understatement.
The duck fell off the bone and was extremely succulent, yet not at all greasy. The roast potato had a crisp outer with an inner consistency of creamy mashed potato and hint of rosemary. The salad was fresh with an amazingly tangy cream dressing. Even the cappuccino was incredible. I ate until I couldn’t put another bite in my mouth for fear that it would all come out. My eyes begged me to stuff more of it in and I was contemplating staying at the café until I was hungry again.
Pierre interrupted my thoughts of gluttony with a suggestion that we visit an art gallery not far from the restaurant. An elderly Parisian lady sitting in the row in front of me commented that it was a beautiful art gallery and, in a way that only the French can, told me I absolutely had to go! Pierre offered to take me there. Although I would have loved to go, I declined as I had something else I wanted to do in Paris, that definitely couldn’t involve Pierre. Buy French underwear! And besides, after Spain, London and Italy, I was kind of at the end of my art gallery limit.
My stomach bulging and my appetite sated I said my Adieus and waddled off along the cobblestone streets of Paris.